However, when he turned again toward the tail of the aircraft, Dugan saw there was now a way out. He shot a glance toward Richards and understood he saw it too, for he had already started moving in that direction. Dugan followed, creeping along the floor of the cargo hold, using the metal runners where he could to provide propulsion toward the open cargo bay door and freedom. Only then did he remember.
Turning, he saw the plane had foundered still deeper. The niche where he had lain was now inundated. Taking a deep breath if only out of habit, Dugan went under, kicking strongly to his left toward army’s battered corpse. The man’s eyes were open. His legs were suspended impossibly above his head. Through the murky depths, Dugan saw the man’s right arm was now engaged in a fluttering, come hither motion that was almost balletic.
Swimming toward the dead man, Dugan lifted his velvet shroud and wrenched it toward him, in desperation he should lose something so valuable. Then, he saw it, poking out from beneath the man’s left buttock. Reaching down, he plucked his bag from beneath the dead body and swam one armed the few feet toward the surface. Upon arrival, he heard the plane heave another death throe groan and started moving with a purpose.
When he finally made his coughing, gasping way to the end of the sinking plane, Richards was waiting. So too was the man still strapped in his seat. Just his shoulders and above were now free of the water. His weepy, blistered face and burnt hair revealed that the then top of the plane had borne the brunt of the heat blast. Curiously, he appeared to still be grappling with the straps that somehow still held him in place. Looking past him, Dugan saw that the airframe around him had accordioned and buckled. The now desperate man was pleading with Richards in an increasingly panicked voice.
“Help me, man. You gotta help me!”
Another tortured moan rumbled through the aircraft as it settled deeper into the water. In an instant, only the man’s cockeyed head and neck were visible. The water around him roiled with his progressively frenetic attempts to unfasten himself. Looking up, Dugan saw only a few feet of cargo door remained, and nothing but jungle beyond. Below him, he felt the water creeping above his chest.
“You gotta help me, man,” the trapped man begged. “You owe me, Richards! Help me, please!”
Dugan turned to Richards, noticing then that Richards had recovered his own, somewhat more bulky bag, and had it slung across his shoulder. After nodding toward Dugan, ignoring the man’s wailing sobs, Richards crawled to the upswept lip of the cargo ramp and rolled the few feet into the water.
“Help me, please!” the man screamed, shifting his pleading eyes toward Dugan, who took one last look at the man’s woeful predicament before he too scrambled to the edge of the soon to be engulfed plane and jumped into the water.
Part II
“By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded.”
– Joseph Conrad
Chapter Four
1
In an unmarked car parked outside the beachfront villa in which Senor Proctor made his home, his camera at the ready, Chief Torres waited patiently for the girl to make an appearance. She came out about this same time every day, good little Catholic girl that she was. He got some very good shots of her yesterday, when she left the house with that cow of a cook to go to morning mass. Her blue-black hair flowed loosely in the lazy ocean breeze. She had her head cocked slightly to the left, her lips curled upward in the wisp of a smile. Her coppery skin and high cheekbones were dead giveaways of her mestiza ancestry, features that were highly prized by some, he among them. While watching her through his telephoto lens, Torres felt a growing sense of urgency in his groin. Alas, it would have to wait.
He had been paid handsomely over the years by unnamed individuals to keep a watchful eye on the occupant of this house and his young nephew. He didn’t know by whom. All he knew was that the instructions were clear, and that the thick envelope arrived on the fifth day of every month. Truth be told, it was the easiest money he had ever made. His sole task was to ensure that both man and boy remained safe, and that their whereabouts were known. Neither of them ever left the house much anyway, and if they did, it was only to go the few miles into town.
Of course, his task had been made more difficult these past few months, ever since the boy moved from the villa to a ranch in the foothills outside of town. Even with the boy’s departure, the chief’s many years of return visits and casual conversations with Senor Dugan had convinced him of their closeness. Where you would find one, you would soon find the other.
He had thought it curious early on that even when he lived here, he seldom saw the boy. Senor Proctor explained that his nephew was deathly allergic to the sun, therefore did most of his sleeping during the day. It must be a terrible thing to be allergic to the sun, he remembered thinking at the time. But his first glimpse of the boy’s ghostlike countenance made him accept that explanation without hesitation.
Yet setting aside all that, the primary reason for most of his uninvited visits over the years was to catch a glimpse of the girl, Ana, she called herself, though he was certain that was not her name. He wondered sometimes if she even knew her name. She was older than the girls he was used to dealing in. Still, he must admit she had the natural beauty so common to her race, along with an innocence that belied her years.
On one level, Torres knew she was a nothing. Less than nothing, really. He likened her to just another of those peasant girls of his youth, all beautiful in their own way, but used up very quickly and becoming old before their time. Even as a callow boy, he found it profoundly bothersome they all seemed to fall for the first gringo they met, as if to deny their proud and ancient heritage. To Torres, it just wasn’t right they should so easily give away the flower of their youth to the first gavacho with a thick wallet that came along. Better to save yourself for your own kind.
Yes, he had been paid handsomely to keep tabs on the boy and his uncle, but he was paid more handsomely still for the girls he procured. As the respected police chief in a beach community, overflowing with people coming and going and transients of all kinds passing through, furnishing them was rarely a problem. He considered it an honor that those to whom he delivered the girls (and if a special request was pending, boys) gave him the privilege of breaking them into their new lives. What happened to the poor souls after he was done with them, he did his best not to know. He presumed that some became the playthings of rich hacendados or their ranch hands. He suspected most were sold up the line multiple times, the lucky ones serving as prostitutes in the beach resorts up and down the coast. The scuttlebutt was that some even made it all the way to New York City to ply their newfound trade. The unlucky ones? Eh. He preferred not to think about that.
As he waited on this day for the girl to come out, with the swelling in his lap verging on uncomfortable, he prepared his camera for one more shot. He liked having before and after photographs of the girls he acquired, both for future reference and for his solo pleasure. They were usually so happy and carefree in the before versions. Alas, those same sentiments did not extend to the afters.
At any rate, he was certain he was doing this one a great service. After all, she was about to be left alone in the world now that her gringo sugar daddy was no more. Sadly, Torres had no expectation Senor Proctor would ever be returning home. Those who received invitations on the yellow stationary never did.
2
Dan remained cooped up in the house for a few days, finishing off what was left of the beer and his Leon Uris novel. He had since moved on to a thick Herman Wouk before stir craziness got the better of him, and he decided one morning to put to the test just what kind of prisoner he was.
Leaving the guest house, he walked across the lawn and then up the Talavera tile walkway, soon finding himself on the long driveway at the front of the house. Gazing forward, he saw at the end that the iron gates were locked. Putting his hands on his hips, frustrated now, he was just about to turn around resignedly when a voic
e from above startled him.
“And where are you off to on this fine morning?” it asked.
Raising his head, he saw on the second floor terrace was Senor Esquinaldo himself, dressed in a smart looking morning jacket, burnished red with wide, black lapels. Dan guessed he might still have his bathing suit on underneath. He swam laps religiously in the pool every morning.
Dan chewed over how to answer the question before he just blurted it out. “Not going anywhere with those gates locked, am I?” he said.
Esquinaldo seemed taken aback. “Mr. Proctor, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but you are no prisoner here. You are my guest! A guest I have been asked to keep a close eye on, certainly, and to ensure that no harm befall you. But we are a civilized people, Mr. Proctor. This is a civilized country. And there is nowhere you can go where we cannot find you.”
He let that subtlety hang in the air before going on.
“You will see a button on the right-hand post, just below eye level. Push it, and the gates will open. You’ll find it a nice walk down to the Paseo, where no doubt you can readily find a taxi, or if you prefer, a bus will come before long.”
Dan stood there a moment, a little chagrined to have all but accused the man of holding him captive. On the other hand, both of them knew he wasn’t here voluntarily, so he let the feeling go.
“Thanks a lot,” he said more cordially. “Think I’ll just spend some time downtown and clear my head.”
Esquinaldo smiled. “I recommend the Zocolo to all my tourist friends. There you will find Alameda Central, the Regis Hotel, the Cathedral, and the National Palace. It is the heart of old Mexico. There is much to see and do.”
Dan smiled, remembering spending lots of time there on his last trip. It’s where the Diego Rivera mural he had lost himself in could be found.
“Thanks,” he said. “That sounds good. And have a good day!” He began walking down the long drive toward the iron gates.
“You too, Mr. Proctor,” Esquinaldo said to his departing back. “And please, do not return too late. We don’t want to worry.”
Dan sent a perfunctory wave Esquinaldo’s way but kept on walking.
Still, Dan had to admit Esquinaldo called it just about right. A brisk ten minute walk through the upscale neighborhood of cloistered estates and gated mansions was all it took to bring him to the Paseo, where a taxi came along almost instantly. Climbing in, he said, “Zocolo” to the driver, who nodded crisply and then peeled away.
Traffic was heavy on this business day, with thousands of buses and cars and decrepit looking trucks hauling who knows what jockeying for space on the congested avenues. While sitting there, Dan found he was somewhat winded, no doubt a result of the walk, but also the elevation of the city along with the everpresent smog. A thick blanket of brownish-yellow haze hung permanently over the city, making the skies above seem nothing less than those of an alien planet. He hoped his old lungs would hold out.
Once free of the gridlock, they drove through the Zona Rosa district, passing the grand Continental and Sheraton hotels, and beyond those the soaring Angel of Independence monument. One-hundred and fifty feet tall, crowned with a golden angel, it was the iconic national symbol of Mexico.
Reaching the Zocolo, Dan shoved a fistful of pesos into the driver’s hand and exited the cab. The streets and sidewalks teemed with people from all strata of society: businessmen and tourists, shopkeepers and beggars, Bohemians and students. He wandered a while among the stores and cafes, stopping at open air malls to peruse the merchandise. He loitered at a newsstand and skimmed the front pages, all featuring grisly photographs of a man who had been gunned down two days before. Scanning one article, he read the man had been a much-beloved reporter who, the rumor went, had gotten under the skin of one of the country’s many drug kingpins.
Confoundingly, while meandering among the pushcarts, examining masterfully carved chess sets based on Aztec imagery, and delicately woven, vibrantly colorful blankets, he could not escape the feeling he was being followed. He pivoted a few times and saw nothing out of the ordinary, the crowds consisting chiefly of tourists: Asians with cameras, honeymooners with eyes only for each other, and restive husbands trying to light a fire under their slowpoke wives.
Shaking it off as the leftover residue from his cryptic conversation with Esquinaldo that morning, he decided it was time to have that beer. The day was hot. Perspiration streamed down his neck and face, dampening the powder blue polo he was wearing. While walking, he remembered that’s another thing to worry about. He had brought clothes only for the police chief’s lower estimate. Any longer and things would get dicey.
Still, he turned once or twice along the way, craning his neck, unable to shake the sensation of being followed. He went so far as to quickly round a corner before half jogging his way along the sidewalk and into Hotel Prado through a side entrance. The bar was on the first floor.
Upon entering, he smiled to think that nothing had changed since last he’d been here. He might have been in the place just yesterday. Glancing leftward toward the lobby bar, he saw behind it even the bartender might be the same. The Rivera mural certainly was.
Titled, Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in the Central Alameda, the monumental painting ran the length of the wall, fancifully depicting hundreds of characters from Mexican history strolling through the Alameda, Mexico City’s Central Park. Within its whimsical boundaries were colorful balloons, vendors selling wares, and well dressed visitors. There were nightmares in there too, with skeletons and shootings and people being trampled by a horse. At the center of it all was a likeness of the artist as a young boy. For Dan, it was like seeing old friends. He saw something new every time he visited.
The red-vested bartender walked over as soon as Dan sat down. He ordered a beer and a shot and while waiting, glanced around the (now that he looked more closely) somewhat going to seed lobby. The worn carpet needed updating. There were brown splotches on the walls and ceiling that might be water damage. Yellow leaves among the potted plants revealed that they too needed some tender loving care.
What the hell, he thought, as the bartender brought him his drinks. Downing the shot, he cast his gaze toward the small boy at the center of the painting and remembered they were all getting old.
He had just set his empty glass on the bar when a voice to his left, in an accent that was all Brooklyn, said, “Beautiful thing, ain’t it?”
There being no one else within ten feet, the question was obviously directed at him. But Dan was in no mood for chitchat with a stranger. It wasn’t the reason he’d come. He was about to answer with a dismissively hostile, “Sure is,” that he hoped would get the message across, when at the periphery of his vision he saw the man wasn’t alluding to the Rivera mural at all. No, the man to his left held in his hands a copy of that morning’s newspaper, open to photos of the bullet-riddled face of the ill fated reporter who’d bought it two days prior. That was even better, he thought.
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” he said with the same dismissive tone he had planned to use previously.
He didn’t look at the man while saying it, and quickly picked up his beer for a long swallow afterward while gazing to the opposite end of the bar. Dan figured the guy would have to be an idiot – or a New Yorker, he remembered with an inner sigh – not to get the hint.
But what the man said next chilled him even further. “Oh, I think you might, Mr. Proctor. I think you just might.”
3
Dan went numb, open mouthed, with the beer partway to his lips. Turning his head, he took in the man who somehow knew his name. Middle-aged, stout, with a big nose and ruddy cheeks, he wore a wrinkled white shirt with a rumpled brown suit and a loosened red tie. The top button of his shirt was undone as if to provide some respite from the heat. When the man turned toward him, Dan saw his penetrating green eyes were those of someone who didn’t miss a trick. He further discerned from his haggard expression and the dark circles beneath his eyes t
hat he hadn’t slept in days.
“Excuse me?” was the best Dan could come up with.
Realizing that the beer was still halfway to his lips, he pondered taking a swig but decided to set it on the bar, supposing that was what someone in his position might be expected to do. What that position was, he had no idea.
“Sorry about that,” the man said with a thin smile that communicated he wasn’t sorry at all. Next, he asked, “Your name is Daniel Proctor, is it not?”
A thousand thoughts galloped through Dan’s mind at that moment, not to mention a reflexive flight or fight response. He felt beads of moisture start to form on his forehead. The man beside him saw them too. And though he wasn’t guilty of a damn thing, he knew in that moment he might have confessed to anything, including the murder of that poor bastard reporter whose face still stared at him from the open newspaper.
“Who are you?” Dan managed to choke out, ordering his arm not to reach up to wipe the sweat now dribbling into his eyes.
He watched the man reach into his breast pocket and pull out a leather wallet. Flipping it open, Dan saw inside was a badge along with a government issued I.D. that identified him as Horace D. Winthrop, an agent of the U.S. government’s Drug Enforcement Agency.
Having had that brief moment to collect himself, not to mention knowing now who and what this man was, Dan felt a little better, though why a DEA agent had any interest in him was a mystery. Anyway, he had nothing – well, very little – to hide.
Digging deep for some bravado, Dan took another look at the black and white photo of the agent and said, “You’ve put on a little weight.”
The man let slip a thin smirk while flipping the wallet shut and shoving it back in his pocket.
“It’s the food down here,” he said earnestly. “I can’t get enough of it. In fact, I admit one of the reasons I took this assignment was the food.”
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 7